


Rat 'n Boots: An X-Files Fairy Tale

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-11-26
Updated: 1998-11-26
Packaged: 2020-12-09 18:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Alex makes a few deals.





	Rat 'n Boots: An X-Files Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Woodinat found me a copy of Puss 'n Boots to massacre, Rye beta-read the carnage.

Once upon a time, in a land not unlike Washington D.C.,   
there came a time of great upheaval in the halls of power.   
A time of deaths and burnings. A time of emotional   
suffering. A time of stress headaches too powerful for mere   
Excedrin of the Exxxtra Strength to handle.

When all was said and done, the great and powerful were   
left with chaos where they needed order. This was a   
dangerous thing, indeed, and they strove and struggled to   
set things right again.

"How could it be done?" they cried.

And then, from the shadows came a voice of smoke and   
dangerously gigglesome accent. 

"We shall bestow gifts, my friends, and all shall be well   
again." 

No one spoke to disagree.

To Agents Spender and Fowley were given the X-Files, in the   
hopes that two people so flush with the rarefied power of   
Annoyance would be able to simply browbeat and mince the   
troublesome cases into proper silence.

To Assistant Director Kersh was given the power of   
Superiority over Agents Mulder and Scully, in the hopes   
that the man would be too busy restraining his impulse to   
kill to think about that icksome little affirmative action   
suit.

But Agent Mulder was not forgotten. Nay, he received a gift   
of his very own...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder didn't think he would ever be free of the pungent   
scent of fertilizer. 

>From his darkly-spiked hair to his distressingly caked   
Magli's he exuded the wholesomely rich bouquet of the   
nation's farmland. While this had caused the luscious Agent   
Barkin -- formerly of Idaho -- to spend quite a bit of time   
sniffing him nostalgically, the cons still outweighed the   
pros.

He missed the days when his clothes were more concretely   
ruined. Now there was neither fascinating ooze in his   
pockets nor acid burns on his hem. 

Now there was only the disturbing low-grade urge to eat   
fresh vegetables and vote Republican.

His heart was weary, and now it was only Langly's   
occasional forwards of creative uses for farm animals that   
made him smile in the dusty gloom of his apartment. Mulder   
sighed piteously and hoped for a change.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and the thump thump   
thump of fleeing footsteps, and he felt a vicious stab of   
hope. 

Could it be? Had a change finally come?

But Mulder stifled the wish before dragging himself to   
answer. 

And found Alex Krycek at his door, wearing nothing but a   
merry grin and a bright pink bow ribbon. Around his neck. 

Mulder blinked once, slowly, and then waved the other man   
inside with his gun, backed him against the now closed   
door, and settled the barrel against one pale temple.

"Um..."

Mulder didn't answer.

"Jeez, Mulder! Is this any way to accept a gift?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Krycek?"

"A gift. I'm your gift."

Mulder blinked again, reassured himself that his grip on   
the SIG was firm. He tried very hard not to think about how   
Alex's deep sigh would sound if the other man was naked and   
far too close to Mulder in other circumstances. 

"You know, Spender and Fowley got the X-Files, Kersh got   
you, and..."

"I get you."

Alex smiled brilliantly and appeared to consider nodding as   
well, but the gun seemed to make him decide not to do so. 

"That's right, Mulder. I'm all yours."

"All mine."

"Yep."

Mulder pressed the gun a little harder against Alex's   
forehead and felt his lips pull back into something like a   
smile for the first time in... 

Much too long. It got even wider when he caught the scent   
of fear-sweat rising high from the other man. 

"Hey, hey there.... You're not planning to *kill* me, are   
you?"

Mulder cocked his head, and tried to get the smile just a   
teeny bit wider. "Seems like a good idea to *me*, Krycek."

"Well, damn. If this is how you treat *all* your presents   
it's no *wonder* your Christmases were so lousy."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing, it's not really important. Listen, if   
you think a naked me on your doorstep is somehow worse--"

"On the contrary, Krycek. A naked you on my doorstep is the   
first good thing that's happened to me all week." 

Mulder began to run the barrel in tight little circles,   
wondering just which parts of the brain he'd be taking out   
when he pulled the trigger. He hoped for the language   
centers.

"-- worse than some moldering piles of genetic mutants   
waiting to get messy and the opportunity to be *your*   
direct supervisor, then you've got another think coming,   
Mulder."

"Do I, now?" Mulder moved a little closer and watched with   
fascination as one slick droplet of sweat slid to the end   
of Alex's snub nose. He resisted the urge to lick it off. 

"Yes you *do*. Listen, I can get you what you want, Mulder.   
Fortune, power, maybe even a little truth. OK, so I can't   
make too many promises about that last, but--"

Mulder jabbed the barrel harder, pretending he could hear   
the light thud of metal impacting with cranium. "Shut up,   
you lying sonofabitch. If you're my "gift," then just where   
the fuck did they get you from, hunh? Last time I checked   
it took a little more than a trip to the mall to pick up   
your own handy dandy traitorous, back-stabbing prick--"

"I bet you *never* checked Housewares--"

A punch to the gut shut him up neatly. "I asked you a   
question, Krycek. Where did they get you from?" Mulder was   
impressed with the coolly dangerous quality of his own   
voice, and needed look no further than the bright swipe of   
pink over Alex's lip to tell him the other man was, too. 

Alex sighed wistfully. "Walter's basement, but really   
that's not at all important right now..."

A dark swirl of images of just what Alex might have been   
doing in Walter's basement, of what might have been done   
*to* him, threatened to weaken Mulder's resolve. Not to   
mention his knees. He shook himself out of it and tried to   
focus on the other man's words.

"... and a pair of boots then I promise you won't be sorry.   
If you still are, then you can do anything you want with   
me."

"In case you haven't noticed--"

But that was all he had time to say before Alex bit his   
wrist hard enough to make him drop the gun, headbutted him   
and somehow managed to both turn him around and twist both   
his arms behind his back. The next thing Mulder was fully   
aware of was the hot press of lean, obviously naked muscle   
against his spine and a throaty purr at his ear.

"Anything you want, Mulder."

"What do *you* want, asshole?"

Soft lips seemed to kiss the air beside his face. "What I   
want? Well, now... why don't we worry about that in, say, a   
month?" Cheerful laugh. "For now, grant me my life, my   
freedom, and a nice pair of boots -- oh, and some clothes   
would be nice -- and when I return, we can... re-negotiate.   
What do you say?"

The absurdity of the request nearly sent Mulder off that   
edge whose crags and slips had become all too familiar to   
him over the years, but he caught hold of himself   
internally and shook until he was back on something like a   
safe track. 

"Well, OK, Krycek, but if I'm not happy a month from now   
your ass is mine."

"Of course, Mulder, of course." 

Without another word he was free, and by the time he   
managed to correct his balance and check his shoulders for   
soundness, he could hear Alex rummaging through his   
bedroom. Mulder walked to the kitchen for a beer, then   
backtracked in search of something a little stronger. 

It took only three shots of tequila for Alex to return to   
him, having borrowed a tee shirt, his brand new leather   
jacket, a pair of jeans, and his favorite pair of   
motorcycle boots, scuffed and battered into perfect leather   
comfort and steel-toed bad- assed-ness. He was perversely   
glad Brenda had never come back for them, despite having   
hoped Alex would settle for one of the pairs of hiking   
boots. 

Black leather had always suited the other man just fine on   
any number of levels. 

Alex handed him the neatly folded ribbon...

"One month."

... and then was out the door and away. Mulder took another   
shot and then set to burning all of his calendars. Even the   
Far Side ones. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alex breathed deep and smiled. Even in the sooty little   
heart of Milwaukee, Wisconsin's basic dairy goodness was   
pretty much inescapable. Although he was on a schedule, he   
hadn't been able to resist egging some local teenagers out   
in the sticks into some cattle mutilations in return for   
several cases of Beast. 

There were few things he loved more than the idea of   
corrupting America's youth, and one of them was the idea of   
Mulder chafing at the bit to come investigate. 

For now, though, he was on the hunt. And there were simply   
no better grounds for tonight's chosen prey than right   
here. 

He looked up into the night sky and thought of Bikkens.

Maynard Bikkens had been in his "class" at the other   
Academy he'd attended. The man had taught him more about   
estimating the placement of human organs than any number of   
field trips and experiments had, and gave one hell of a   
blow job, besides. In return, he had looked the other way   
when Maynard slipped the leash.

The man had been looney tunes, and their "professors" had   
planned to graduate him just a wee bit early... but loyalty   
had been loyalty in those days, and Alex had taken his   
demerits like a man. Damned if those riding crops hadn't   
left some nasty scars, though. 

As far as he could tell, Maynard had lived the life he'd   
wanted in the intervening years, if the disappearances of a   
large number of dark-haired rentboys with cute little ears   
was any indication. 

Alex was more than vain enough to think it was. He knocked   
at the door of Maynard's neat little house and was   
immediately greeted by the smell of something not *quite*   
like frying pork chops and a pale little man with stylishly   
thin gold glasses. 

"Alex?"

"How's tricks, killer?"

"What do you mean?" 

The arm that ended with a hand carefully hidden behind one   
conservatively khaki-ed thigh twitched slightly, and Alex   
knew that whatever he'd end up doing tonight would most   
probably have happened anyway, sooner or later. The man was   
definitely losing it. Well, more so.

"Hey, hey, Maynard! Take it easy. We know each other,   
right?"

"Why are you here?"

Just once, he'd like for someone to be *happy* he dropped   
by for a visit. Alex let his lashes flutter half-closed,   
parted his lips and rubbed his crotch. "I missed you..." 

His cock had yet to fail him in a situation where weapons   
were involved, and this was no exception. Maynard licked   
his lips once and again, and his hand came into clear view.   
A miniature machete, most probably custom made, hung   
loosely by his thigh.

"May I... come in?"

"Alex... Alex. Yeah, come in."

Dazed and confused. Alex believed he could come to love   
Wisconsin. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The precinct was slow and quiet at this time of night.   
Maynard's neighborhood may have been rather seedy, but   
crime hadn't quite settled in.

Well, mundane crime.

Alex dumped the unconscious Maynard on the floor in front   
of the desk sergeant, and slipped into angry-yet-fiercely-   
proud-little-agent mode -- Mulder's wallet had provided   
more than enough cash for a few changes of clothing. 

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?"

"Sergeant Duffy, this little punk ass is Maynard Charles   
Bikkens. Remember that string of hustler disappearances?"

Duffy's eyes narrowed in a speculative gleam, and Alex felt   
a small moment of camaraderie. Perhaps, in another time,   
this man might've made a good operative. 

"You saying this skuzz is responsible?"

"You might want to check his freezer."

"Ah, *fuck*. Another one. How the hell did *you* get ahold   
to him, Mister..."

"Gabson. *Agent* Gabson, FBI." He flashed his "badge" with   
that brand of high-handed speed and efficiency that had   
served him so well in his years of pretense. "My partner   
worked up the profile. Took one helluva knife wound. He's   
getting patched up."

"We didn't receive any word--"

"Yeah, well, *you* wouldn't." Alex let the anger set in   
before continuing. It would be useful, given proper focus.   
"My partner and I broke a few of the rules, and now we're   
stuck on shit detail. But Mu-- my partner knew this guy   
would just keep on killing, so..."

"So he worked on the profile in his off time." Duffy nodded   
approvingly, and Alex smiled inside and began to ease   
toward the door in an obvious manner.

"Hey, where are you headed?"

"Can't have my name on this, man. Bikkens should be in a   
talkative mood once he wakes up." Alex had, of course, shot   
him full of pentothal. "We're supposed to be in Nebraska.   
Mulder'll have my head if anyone-- *Shit*."

Duffy nodded sagely. "Don't worry, Gabson. We'll keep your   
names out of it. I know from brass, I'll tell you that   
much."

Alex plastered on a look of gratitude, and walked out fast.   
Mulder's name would reach the right places within hours. On   
to task two. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder sat in the rich brown leather of his chair and tried   
very, very hard not to tear out AD Kersh's throat with his   
teeth.

"For the last time, Kersh, I have no idea what you're   
talking about!"

He noted with some measure of exhausted joy that Scully was   
looking equally miffed. Maybe if he mentioned how cute she   
looked that way *she'd* tear Kersh's throat out for him.   
They shared a look, and Scully raised an eyebrow at him. Or   
maybe not.

"Do you mean to tell me that the name Maynard Charles   
Bikkens means nothing to you?"

Kersh had that ice cold DC purr down to a science; Mulder   
would give him that much. 

"Of course it means something to me. That bastard's been   
all over the news for the past week, but I had *nothing* to   
do with it."

"Really, Agent Mulder."

"Really. Sir."

Kersh just looked at him for a long moment, ignoring his   
increasingly irate partner. 

"If you really think I spend my free time profiling serial   
killers, then maybe you should just promote me, Kersh."

"Or maybe I should just put you two back to work."

Kersh slapped a file on the desk and smiled.

"Enjoy Montana."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alex looked out the window from his seat at the exquisitely   
carved drawing room table and sighed to himself. The   
rolling green hills of England had never looked quite so in   
need of carpet bombing. 

Across from him sat Mrs. Well-Groomed-No-Names-Please- We-  
Forgot-Them-Years-Ago-Anyway. Widow's black suited her   
shriveling features beautifully, in that way black lace and   
an icy demeanor always could.

"I was his protege, madam. I need those files to carry on   
your husband's work."

"My husband's *work* did nothing but get him killed in some   
seedy little alleyway in the States, Mr. Krycek."

"On the contrary, madam. Your husband's work got you out of   
those mills in Derry before your lungs could collapse from   
industrial poisons."

A long silence and then the doors opened to reveal several   
large men in that sort of ill mood that meant nothing but a   
trip to yet another doctor too stripped of his credentials   
to say anything about a man with mysterious injuries.

"Do not presume you know anything about me, Mr. Krycek."

"Of course, madam. I apologize."

"Do you? You're very sweet." 

Her voice never left the range of carefully crafted   
aristocracy, and Alex remained still.

"You want those files.... There are things I want as well,   
Mr. Krycek."

"I'm listening."

"We both know who is responsible for my husband's demise. I   
would have his head. Rather dramatic, I know, but I am an   
old woman. I fear my taste for subtlety has drifted away on   
the same wind as my taste for... bangers and mash. You will   
get me what I want, and then you will receive certain   
diskettes."

"Your wish is my command, madam."

"Yes. Of course it is."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The halls of the mighty buzzed and hummed with word of the   
powers of Mulder the Spooky. All over the country, in towns   
great and small, serial killers were turning up, along with   
any number of incriminating trophies.

No one but Mulder could have done such a thing, it was   
said, and yet there was never any sign of his presence   
beyond names whispered on the lips of the awed and   
grateful.

Alex, you see, often grew bored with the search for his   
former patron's killer, and he had any number of exes he   
wished to be rid of.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Week three and Mulder had had *no* success in the attempt   
not to track the time Alex had been away, ashes of Wiener   
Dog Art be damned. Although he had to admit the impatient   
track of days until he got his hands on the bastard again   
provided a measure of sanity. 

While he was still traipsing from farm to farm in search of   
home grown terrorists, the inevitable returns to Washington   
had grown surreal. 

Claps on the back. Secretive smiles from behind cubicle   
walls, and, the worst --

"Give 'em hell, Spooky."

Thrill killers, mass murderers, odd little psychos with   
mother fixations... They were showing up by the blood-slick   
handful in precincts and branch offices all over the   
country. 

And his name was all over the lot of them, despite the fact   
that the closest he'd come to profiling in recent memory   
was the attempt to understand why Susie-the-delivery-girl   
always did a little cha-cha-cha upon leaving her vehicle.

Yet there were other whispers as well. A dark-haired, fresh   
faced man who claimed to be his partner.

If Alex got him sent back to Violent Crimes he'd throttle   
him with the damned bow ribbon, no matter *how* much fun it   
was to jerk off with the thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Canada and snow turned blinding in the winter sun. 

Again. 

Alex couldn't decide whether it was a sign of senility or   
brilliance that the old man had chosen to hide precisely   
where he'd hidden the *last* time. No matter, though. He   
had a job to do.

He kicked in the door and laid down a blanket of machine   
gun fire. There were, of course, no bodies as an end   
result, but the move had bought him time to enter the   
little cabin safely. 

"Come out, come out wherever you are..."

"Alex. How pleasant to see you again."

The old man revealed himself with a drag on a cigarette. He   
was lounged casually in the far corner, and the wood just   
to the left of his head had been splintered by at least one   
bullet. Alex shuddered minutely. The woman may not have   
*specified* that the head was to be undamaged, but it was   
better to assume some things. 

"Thanks, you don't look so bad yourself, actually. Those   
sweaters really work for you."

"Thank *you*. Now, tell me. You're not *really* going to   
try to kill me, are you?"

"Well, that was the plan."

"You can't kill me, little man. You've tried before."

"I was taught to try until you succeed."

"Hence this latest attempt to get in Mulder's pants.   
Honestly, we let you out of that assignment *ages* ago,   
Alex."

"I'm a thorough man."

"I reiterate, you can't kill me."

"Please do explain. I should let you know that the guards   
are staining the snow about three miles to the east."

"I figured as much. Incompetents."

"Hard to get good help these days."

"All too true. Still though, Alex, you can't kill me."

"I'm listening."

"I've always considered myself to be a fair man. There were   
some... experiments... that I volunteered for, myself. When   
I saw just how well the results came out, I made a point   
of... eliminating all traces of the project from the   
record."

"Which would explain the lack of effect all those bullets   
I've pumped into you over the years."

The old man smiled. "Indeed."

"Maybe it just wasn't *enough* bullets."

"Perhaps, perhaps..."

The old man shifted into the vaguely European countenance   
of those beings Alex had come to think of as Real Big Pains   
In the Ass. He immediately dropped his gun to reach for the   
plam, but the next thing he was aware of was the sickening   
freedom of his feet from the hardwood floor and an iron   
hand around his throat.

"Like I said, you can't kill me."

"I..." He coughed helplessly. "I beg to differ."

RBPITA cocked his head in question. "Is that so?"

"That's so."

A smile. "Explain your reasoning." The hand relaxed its   
grip a fraction. 

"Well, sure you can shift form, and take bullets, and bleed   
red -- neat trick, by the way -- but really, how many forms   
can you take? At best, you're just a half-breed."

"I can take any form I wish, boy."

"Oh, really? Then how about the form of Jean-Pierre Chan?"

RBPITA seemed deep in thought for a moment, and then flowed   
with liquid ease into the muscular, darkly handsome form of   
Mr. Chan. Alex smiled evilly. 

"As you can see, I can do--"

But that was all the man had time to say before immediately   
dropping dead of mysterious causes. Alex had figured out   
after the second Scully had bit the big one that relatives   
of the people he'd slept with tended to do that. 

Charles *still* wouldn't return his calls, and it was   
really about time that the odd little quirk of his love   
life could prove itself useful. 

And, while Denese...

//That's Deneeeeeze, Alex. Ma mere is French.//

... Chan may still have been alive somewhere, making the   
lives of men and women alike absolute hell; she'd be doing   
it with one less brother in the world. Alex looked down at   
the slow shift of flesh back into grey crepe and surprise.   
Well, one less brilliantly detailed replica of a brother,   
at least. 

Alex planted the heel of Mulder's boot firmly on the old   
man's chest, removed the machete he'd liberated from   
Maynard's hands, and set to work, whistling happily all the   
while. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You've done well, Mr. Krycek." Black silk today, and Alex   
found he missed the lace. She slid a small business   
envelope across the table, handing off the large specimen   
bottle to one of her flunkies. Presumably for permanent   
storage. "Inside that envelope you will find a key. The   
lock is on the drawer of the desk of the office in which   
you first met my late husband. Am I understood?"

"Yes, madam."

"Excellent. You are dismissed."

Alex walked to the door with as much calm as he could   
muster.

"Oh, and Mr. Krycek?"

"Yes, madam?"

"Stay in touch."

He turned, gave her his best smile and bow. "With pleasure,   
madam."

The titter she gave made his balls try to crawl back into   
his body, but his smile remained even. 

Though he did find himself back at the airport a full half   
hour earlier than he'd calculated. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Day thirty-one and Mulder was pacing his apartment in a   
mixture of anger and anticipation. The cases Kersh was   
handing him had begun to smack vaguely of the paranormal,   
though the assignments themselves remained innocuous. His   
star appeared to be on the rise again. 

The official X-Files, despite the ugly rumors that had led   
to Diana's disappearance with a metaphorical price on her   
head, remained in Spender's hands. He'd already lost one   
new partner, and the man was clearly fraying around the   
edges without Diana's influence. 

Scully had taken to wearing far less fashionable shoes.   
Paranormal edges or no, she'd confided that she'd grown   
sick of ammonium nitrate burns on her best heels. 

And Alex was going to be late within the next fifteen   
minutes.

Click of a safety behind his ear.

Or not. 

"Happy month-day, Mulder."

There was a smile in the purr. "I'm not happy, Alex."

"What? After all I -- that is to say, after all that's   
happened this month?"

"I *still* don't have the X-Files."

"Complain, complain, complain. Have a seat, I think--"

He was cut off by the chirrup of Mulder's cell phone. 

"Mind if I get that?"

"Not at all, Mulder. Not at all."

Yet another smile from just behind him, too awkwardly   
placed to--

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder. This is Assistant Director Skinner calling."

"Sir? What's up?"

"Tomorrow morning you'll receive an interoffice memo   
informing you that, effective immediately, you and Scully   
are back in the X-Files division."

"How--"

"Apparently certain information was received that suggests   
your presence in the division is... required. I just   
thought I'd let you know that I'll be your supervisor   
again. And I expect you in my office at 8:30 sharp. You've   
got some explanations to make, Mulder."

"But I--" He cut himself off at the sound of Alex beginning   
to snigger. "What about Spender?"

"Oh, he's all yours, Mulder."

"Ah, fuck."

"Live with it."

Skinner hung up with a click and Mulder shut the phone off,   
turning to Alex just in time to see him eyeing it   
wistfully. Mulder made a note to check out Walter's   
basement at his earliest possible convenience. 

"Alex--"

"Feeling happy, yet?"

Mulder tried very, very hard to remember the precise   
arrangements of the deal he'd made with the other man a   
month before. 

"Well, I'm still stuck with Spender..."

Alex threw up his hands --

"Hey, wait, where did that come from?"

"Long story."

\-- and settled on the couch with a sigh. 

"Look, Mulder, I really did try to do something about lil'   
Jeffy, but his father cleaned him up just a little too   
neatly. Think of it this way, he *is* his father's son. Get   
'im on a leash and he just might prove useful."

"Useful."

Alex smiled and nodded, and Mulder couldn't help but return   
a grin. 

"OK, OK, so I'm *getting* happy."

"Getting happy. What does it *take* with you, anyway?"

Mulder pulled the somewhat frayed and faded ribbon from his   
pocket.

"Oh, I dunno, Alex.... But I do have a few ideas."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And all in the land rejoiced at the muffled thumps and   
whimpers emanating from Apartment the Forty Second, and   
everyone lived happily ever after. 

Except for the dead ones.

The End.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


End file.
